


Exeunt

by oh_mr_adams



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, as a treat, i just think adams and dickinson should talk about their feelings a little, one of my twice-a-year 1776 fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: After the vote, John Dickinson finds an unexpected guest at his door.
Relationships: John Adams/John Dickinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Exeunt

_“Gentlemen of the congress; I say ye, John Dickinson.”_

John Dickinson turned the phrase over in his mind, over and over again like a waterwheel throughout his entire trek back home to his apartment. He stared straight ahead the whole time, in a daze, relying on muscle memory and instinct to find his way. He’d left the carriage at the statehouse. James would be needing it later, and a walk would do him good, he reasoned with himself. It couldn’t really be called reasoning though, as his internal monologue was nothing but static and that single phrase over and over and over again.  
  
How had he gotten here? To this point in his life, to be stumbling home like a wounded animal, so thoroughly humiliated by a man that was so thoroughly hated by everyone around him? His brain continually failed to put the pieces together and his knuckles were turning white from gripping his cane so tightly. How could he have lost like this? He’d been in control, he was always in control of any situation that involved him so what had happened? James. The weakest link had finally broken. Dickinson was vaguely aware of the people in the street nervously parting in front of him. Like Moses in the red sea, his tangible anger was enough to split apart the milling crowds. Crowds of indigents with no higher thought of anything beyond themselves.  
  
“ _Now what do you know about the people, Dickinson?”_ _  
__  
_He gripped his cane tighter. This was James’ fault. It had to be. The spineless bastard had betrayed him, betrayed their country, betrayed their years of friendship. This was all because of him. John’s throat tightened uncomfortably and he started walking faster. James had betrayed him and now he’d lost to that loud-mouthed, incorrigible little madman. Now the country was doomed. Now he was off to war. His mouth was dry and he picked up the pace again, feeling as if every one of the bustling crowd were staring down at him, their eyes slowly and steadily burning holes in his being.  
  
No. He must be reasonable. This couldn’t have all been James’ fault, James didn’t have the ambition, the drive, the… anything, necessary to cause something like this. He was just a disappointment in the end. Nothing more. Dickinson could start to hear his own mumbling rise above the din of the people on the streets around him. This was the fault of that incendiary little man. The radical. The demagogue. John’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. This could not have happened. There was no logical explanation as to how all his plans, his security, his life, could have vanished over the course of a morning. It simply wasn’t possible, more akin to a horrible dream than any form of reality-

 _“Why can’t you acknowledge what already exists?”  
  
_ Damn. God damn that man. That abrasive, abusive little man. No, no, his life hadn’t fallen apart over the course of a morning, Dickinson realized slowly, the wretched indignation dawning upon him, no, that horrid man had slowly been whittling away at him, at James, weaseling his way into a position where, over the course of a morning, he could tear the country, and John Dickinson, apart. Despite the man’s weaseling, however, all of this could have been circumvented if he didn’t ally himself with spineless traitors. James’ pathetic whimpering still sat heavily on his mind. Throwing away their entire cause for reasons simultaneously so laughably pitiful and enragingly selfish.

Dickinson was seething, his shoulders rising and falling with labored breaths, by the time he’d reached his apartment. It took him an annoyingly long time to find his key, fishing through his pockets with fingers still numb from being balled into fists, his teeth clenching with such a ferocity that in the back of his mind he was concerned his jaw might freeze like that. Finally, his fingers closed around the key and he jammed it into the lock, wrenching the door open and stumbling into the dark safety of his apartment. He stood for a moment, gently clicked the door shut, and leaned against it with a tired exhalation. A few hours remained until the sun would be pouring in through the windows facing the street, and for now, it was cool, dark, silent, and safe. Safe, safe, safe.  
  
 _“So safe, so fat, so comfortable in Pennsylvania.”_ _  
  
_

Dickinson was deaf to the noise of his own growling scream of frustration, and the clatter of his cane against the wall was the only thing that alerted him to the fact that he’d thrown it. He froze like that, hunched over, one arm flung out in a pathetically pointless display of rage, teeth bared, his whole body pulsing with labored breaths.

Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn damn. His fingertips twitched and he slowly brought his arm down to his side, straightened his back, dusted off his coat. He breathed slowly in, then out, devoting all his energy to controlling the shuddering of his chest. He glanced around the room as if he had an audience that he needed to assure of the fact that everything was all right, that this was simply part of the program, that everything henceforth would proceed as usual. He cleared his throat and smoothed out his waistcoat, then stepped purposefully over to where his cane had landed on the floor. Crouching down, he picked it up as he stared at up the dent he’d left in the wallpaper, all the while forcefully maintaining the even rhythm of his breathing.  
  
 _“Gentlemen of the congress; I say ye, John Dickinson.”_

Dickinson had already brandished the extent of his rage and was left with that phrase still circling his mind. Echoing, both mockingly and quite hauntingly through him, clear as day. As if the man were still behind him with those intense eyes, for perhaps the first time Dickinson had ever witnessed, devoid of scorn. Yet why did it still humiliate him so? The hand not gripping his cane began to tremble as he slowly stood back up, and whatever force had been holding him upright all the way home quickly began to falter. Weakening rapidly and growing increasingly nauseated, he stumbled over to the comfortable leather chair always reliably tucked away in the corner of his living room. Sinking into it, he let out a tired sigh and rubbed his hand across his face.  
  
How had it come to this? What oversight had he made? The question was laughable, of course, the answer was clear. He’d failed to calculate just how far James’ loyalty to him could extend. He’d failed to consider that a man could treasure anonymity so much. Could such a person still be considered a man? Did not a human being require a purpose, a goal, a way in which they could see their own value reflected in the world? How could a man get by intent on leaving as little a mark as possible, failing to even make an offending scratch into the varnish of his own existence?  
  
John Dickinson figured then, however, that Wilson had in fact made the offending mark. Not on the world at large, as most men would strive for, but on him. He would forever be marked by this failure, this defeat, all at the hands of a non-entity such as James Wilson with ample assistance from that wretched little agitator. His teeth continued to grind against each other as he stared at the wall with the sour taste of betrayal coating his tongue.  
  
When the soft yellowing-orange of afternoon crept in through his window, Dickinson heard a soft knock at the door. It startled him to the fact that he’d been sitting, staring at the wall for an undue amount of time, and he pondered this with embarrassment until he heard the knock again, audibly less patient. His eyebrows furrowed. He’d have thought that James would know better than to impose himself at that point. He’d thought he’d managed to convey the fact that whatever relationship they’d had up until that morning had been rendered null and void by such an indiscretion. The knocking became more forceful and Dickinson imagined Wilson just standing at his door, likely in tears, begging him for forgiveness. The thought brought a cruel smirk to his lips and he almost thought to just leave him there.  
  
But John Dickinson loved the moral superiority that came with taking the high road and pushed himself up from his chair when the knocking persisted. “Coming, coming,” he mumbled, still exhausted to his bones even after the hours spent sitting, fixated on the wall, and on his own spiraling thoughts. His hand rested on the doorknob. He could just refuse to see him. He had no reason to want to see James now. He reminded himself of the moral high ground and swung the door open.  
  
Brown coat. Brown hair that was so dark it was black in almost all light, tied back with a neat tightness that reflected the man’s own fastidiousness. Big, round eyes in an unsettling shade of blue. Unshaven, as Dickinson had remembered him being that morning. Both hands fiddling with his cane.

  
This was not James Wilson.  
  
John Dickinson’s entire brain had been reduced to the high pitched ringing sound that lingered in his ears when someone slammed a door too harshly or dropped something particularly heavy. His eyes were locked onto the round, pale blue eyes that stared back up at him, expectantly. He could not think of the faintest thing to say to Mr. John Adams, who was, for some ungodly reason, standing at the front steps of his apartment. He just blinked stupidly, looking as if he was entirely failing to comprehend the situation, which, in his defense, was entirely incomprehensible. John Adams cleared his throat. John Dickinson’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the doorframe. 

“Good afternoon,” Adams started cautiously, “Mr. Dickinson.” Dickinson only blinked in response and Adams’ fidgeting grew in vigor. Neither man broke eye contact as the seconds dragged on relentlessly until finally Dickinson stood up a little straighter and pried his grip from the doorframe. He clasped his hands together behind his back, still staring down at the little man shifting his weight from side to side and passing his cane back and forth between his hands.  
  
“Mr. Adams,” Dickinson said quietly, his voice too filled with uncertainty to be filled with too much venom, but containing venom nonetheless, “What are you doing here?” Adams continued rocking back and forth on his heels as he chewed the inside of his cheek.  
  
“I simply thought I’d check in with you,” he said matter-of-factly, his eyes finally breaking from Dickinson’s and glancing around at anything that could commandeer his attention. “See how you’re doing.” Dickinson’s brain returned to the flatline of monotone ringing, unable to hold on to a single thought or even conjure a thought to hold on to. The entire situation just seemed so laughably ludicrous. On the inside, he was laughing, he was sure of it. Yet he could have been mistaken for a statue at that moment, for all the humor that seemed to linger silently around them. After a moment, Adams’ eyes returned to his, still rocking back and forth and still incessantly fiddling with his cane that Dickinson was struck with a fierce momentary urge to just snatch it from him to make him stop. “Will you invite me in?” Adams said with an uncustomary hesitation and yet the same characteristic imposing manner that Dickinson had grown used to. Annoyance finally began to build up within him at an expeditious rate.  
  
“Why, Mr. Adams, pray tell, in God’s name,” the venom quickly overtook the uncertainty in his voice, “Would I have any reason or desire to do something like that?” Adams finally ceased his fidgeting.

“Because, Mr. Dickinson, you are a considerate man.”  
  
If John Dickinson were any less considerate of a man, he’d have tackled Mr. Adams to the ground at that moment and beat him against the cobblestones. But he was quite a considerate man, and so he held the door open in still-disbelieving silence. He stood stock-still against the wall, staring blankly at the wall across from him, as Adams nervously stepped into his apartment. The living room was now fully cast in a pale orange glow and even in the shadows, Dickinson could make out uncharacteristic apprehension on the man’s face. Adams resumed fidgeting with his cane as Dickinson slowly shut the door, watching him guardedly all the while. The door clicked shut and the two were left in a resounding silence.  
  
Dickinson was at a loss as to what to do. The man seemingly had no intention of mocking him further, and if he did it wouldn’t accomplish much in such a setting. On top of that, Dickinson really had no lower station in which to fall. Adams now held everything over him and yet here he was, glancing about the room and rocking back and forth on his heels like a nervous child.  
  
“Can I… get you anything?” Dickinson tried awkwardly, his hands locked in place at his sides. Adams glanced over at him in momentary surprise, as if he’d almost forgotten that Dickinson was there.  
  
“No, no, I’m quite alright, thank you.”  
  
Again, Dickinson was at a loss. If Adams would just make his purpose clear and give him something to work with that would make this whole encounter much more tolerable. And yet both men just stood uncomfortably in the entryway of his apartment, almost frozen in time. “Would you… like to take a seat?” He gestured to a table up against the far wall of the living room, flanked by two chairs.  
  
Adams nodded. “Gladly,” he said firmly and strode over, taking the offered seat. Dickinson nearly sighed in relief before taking the opposite chair. The silence resumed until Dickinson’s patience ran out.  
  
Adams was frozen still, all except for the constant passing of his cane back and forth between his hands. The motion made Dickinson grow continually tenser as time passed and he found himself drumming his fingers against the table. “So what are you doing here?” He said quickly, making a strained effort to not sound annoyed.  
  
“Like I said,” Adams said measuredly, “Checking in with you. Making sure everything’s alright.” Adams didn’t look at him, only finally averting his gaze from the window to follow the rhythmic drumming of Dickinson’s fingers.  
  
“Are you mocking me?” Dickinson questioned, his jaw beginning to tighten again. Adams finally looked up at him again with the same constant sincerity in those big, round eyes that seemed to accompany every situation.  
  
“No,” he snapped, with what to Dickinson sounded like more than a little offense. “No,” he then repeated more calmly. His eyes returned to the window. “No, I… I can see why you’d assume that.” Another quiet moment passed before Adams slowly turned his eyes to him again. “But I am legitimately… concerned.”  
  
Dickinson was relieved when he finally felt himself able to scoff, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair. “Concerned?” He asked with equal parts spite and humor. Adams shrugged uncomfortably.  
  
“Not concerned then…” he mumbled, “Troubled? Curious?” Dickinson met Adams’ attempts with another scoff, to which Adams furrowed his brow and finally set his cane to rest in his lap. “Well if you’d rather this weren’t happening, I will leave,” he forced out with the usual harshness. Dickinson, in a manner that bothered himself deeply, felt an odd, guilty twisting in his stomach and let his arms relax a bit.  
  
“No,” he mumbled, his eyes cast down to the table, “No it’s alright. What are you curious about?”  
  
Adams returned to fiddling with his cane, his eyes now glued to it. “Well… are you actually going to do it?” He asked quietly.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Join the army.”  
  
Dickinson’s shoulders hunched again as his annoyance returned. “Yes. Of course, I am. Do you think I’d just admit something like that only to back out of it?” He felt his upper lip twitching with barely contained frustration. Adams looked back up at him with some sort of worry. “Do you think I’d say something like that to, what?” a laugh crept into his voice, “Impress the likes of you? You flatter yourself.”  
  
Adams, seemingly unable to make eye contact with Dickinson for a period of time longer than a brief moment, returned his gaze the cane twirling around in his hands. “No I… I just… no one would think less of you if you didn’t. I wouldn’t.” His words froze Dickinson in his seat, his brain once again stuck in disbelief. A grin slowly crept onto his face, in utter incredulity at the situation. The silence caused Adams to look up at him again, only to raise his eyebrows nervously at Dickinson’s expression.  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Dickinson said quietly. “Are you kidding me?” He repeated himself, louder and with further disbelief. Adams leaned back away from him. “I could have expected this from Wilson, but from you?” His voice rose continually, as did his anger. “The man who thinks he has a place in calling me a coward is now telling me he’d find it understandable if I just decided to run from the commitment I’ve made?” Adams’ eyes briefly widened at that before his face turned to a scowl.  
  
“I’m not saying anything, Dickinson, I’m just-”  
  
Dickinson shot up from his seat. “No! And you don’t get to!” He was shouting now, “This is your war and you ought to be thankful for every last goddamned man left to fight it!” Adams matched him, rising from his seat as well.

“This is not my war, Dickinson!” He shouted back, “This started whether I wanted it to or not!”  
  
“And you wanted it to,” Dickinson smirked, “You really did.”  
  
The usual blazing sincerity in Adams’ eyes returned with a vengeance and with a step he was within a foot of Dickinson’s face. “How dare you?” he growled before Dickinson grabbed him by the collar.  
  
“I can dare anything I please, I haven’t got anything left to lose!” Dickinson shouted, and Adams simply stood there, Dickinson’s knuckles turning white as they gripped his lapels. The smaller man seemed to relax slightly, more out of defeat than anything else, and Dickinson stared him down for another brief moment before letting him go. He felt a bit nauseous and slumped back into his chair. Adams smoothed out the front of his coat.  
  
“Well,” Adams mumbled, his voice not much more than a whisper, “I suppose I've quite overstayed my welcome.” He tugged awkwardly on his lapels before turning. Dickinson quickly leaned forward, half rising from his seat with one hand on the table to support himself, and placed the other hand on Adams’ shoulder.  
  
“No-” he croaked. Adams' head jerked around to meet his eyes. “I… I haven’t got much all else to do.” Dickinson had no idea why he was saying this, or why he felt the urge to stop Mr. Adams in the first place. Yet he continued. “Would you stay?” Adams stared at him in disbelief, a disbelief that Dickinson shared.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes.” The two stared at each other in awkward silence. “The thought of sitting here alone and staring at the wall is… unappealing.” He regretted his words as Adams’ expression of disbelief began to take on some aspect of sensitivity or - god help him - pity. John Adams slowly returned to his seat, his eyes not leaving Dickinson’s, in the manner of a cornered animal. Dickinson sighed, slowly sliding his hand from Adams’ shoulder.  
  
“Can I… get you a drink?” Dickinson offered. Adams chewed on the inside of his cheek before nodding. It was only now, Dickinson realized with an inward mirth, that he’d noticed how constantly fidgety the man was. Always moving about and looking vaguely uncomfortable.  
  
“Yes, please,” Adams mumbled as Dickinson rose from his seat. “Everyone else is out getting absolutely hammered, I suppose I ought to partake.” Dickinson smirked as he crossed the room to a glass-doored cabinet, sliding objects aside until he could reach a glass bottle in the back.  
  
“Did they all go out for drinks without you?” Dickinson called over his shoulder.  
  
“I went with them, of course. I’m the reason they’re all drinking in the first place. I just don’t really enjoy taverns.”  
  
“Still, to be the only one not attending his own party…”  
  
“Well sue me if I didn’t feel like hanging around a dingy bar watching Wilson cry into his beer.”  
  
Dickinson paused, not averting his eyes from the cupboard. “Cry?”

“More or less.”  
  
Dickinson pushed such thoughts from his mind. “It’s your victory,” he said as he returned with a bottle of brandy and two glasses in hand, setting them down onto the table, “You ought to be the one getting blitzed.” Adams stared at the bottle with raised eyebrows as Dickinson half-filled each glass. He sat down, passing one glass to the man across the table, and then lifted his own. “Cheers,” he said, with only a hint of insincerity, “To your victory.” Adams raised his glass and slowly clinked it against Dickinson’s.  
  
“Cheers.”

They both drained their glasses as if they hadn’t had anything to drink in a year, and Adams stared at the bottle with a renewed sort of shock.  
  
“Wow.”  
  
Dickinson grinned. “I was saving this for your inevitable defeat,” he said as he refilled both glasses. Adams leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
“Inevitable?” He asked, one eyebrow cocked mockingly.  
  
“Or so I thought.” They both drained their glasses again, and despite his misery, Dickinson found himself smiling. Adams smiled in turn and they both looked at each other like that for what would otherwise be an awkward length of time. Eventually, Adams’ smile faltered and he stared down at his glass. This worried Dickinson an inordinate amount and he leaned forward. “What? What is it?”  
  
Adams shook his head. “Nothing,” he mumbled as he placed his glass back down onto the table. Dickinson took it and refilled it.

“It’s clearly something,” he said with furrowed eyebrows as Adams took his glass back, not finishing it in one go this time.  
  
“No,” he mumbled again, “It’s nothing.”  
  
“John,” Dickinson pushed with a hint of warning in his voice, sounding to himself disgustingly motherly. Adams seemed to notice it too and glanced up at him in muted surprise. Dickinson could hardly reason with himself as to why he was behaving this way. The alcohol, it had to be the alcohol. He watched as Adams chewed hesitantly on his lip, turning his half-full glass in his fingers.  
  
“Well, it’s just…” he paused again. It was so uncharacteristic of Adams to be so hesitant with his words and this was beginning to annoy Dickinson a great deal.  
  
“Yes..?” He pushed. Did Adams’ cheeks just turn red? Dickinson figured he must have been seeing things because John Adams did not blush. Yet, when he turned his face to the window and Dickinson could see it clearly, he was certainly blushing. Dickinson was suddenly overwhelmed with amazement, smug satisfaction, and… something else.  
  
“It’s just that when you’re gone, there’s no one else that…” Adams seemed to shrink a little in his seat. “There’s no one else that is nearly as fun to argue with.” Dickinson’s brain flatlined once more in the resounding silence, until Adams sheepishly looked back up at him, causing him to burst out laughing. Adams’ face then feverishly went red all over and he sat up straight, throwing back the rest of his drink. It took around a minute of Adams’ indignant pouting for Dickinson’s laughter to finally slow to a halt, but he wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before smiling back at him. Adams mimicked him, a self-conscious smile slowly appearing on his face.  
  
“Are you serious?” Dickinson asked, surprisingly without any hint of scorn in his voice. Adams looked away before nodding. Another, more comfortable silence lingered as Dickinson attempted to process this. He filled both glasses again, more as an attempt to busy himself than anything else. “Well that’s certainly something,” he said softly.  
  
“Shut up,” Adams pouted again.  
  
“Relax,” Dickinson laughed. “It’s…” Adams’ eyes hesitantly met his. “Cute.” Adams’ face then rapidly went red again and he looked away.  
  
“You’re mocking me.”  
  
“I’m not,” Dickinson said, trying to intone as much sincerity as he could muster under the circumstances. “What about Rutledge?” He tried changing the subject. Adams’ nose wrinkled at the suggestion.  
  
“Rutledge?” He asked as if the suggestion were utterly unfathomable. “He’s just cruel. He’s not intelligent like…” Adams stopped himself, chewing the inside of his cheek. A grin slowly materialized on Dickinson’s face. At that point, he could hardly consider the morning’s events a loss if they lead to this moment.  
  
“Like me?” The glee was all too audible in his voice and Adams managed to avert his eyes even more.  
  
“Shut up,” Adams growled as he shrugged off his coat, letting it hang off the seat of his chair behind him. He rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his palm. Dickinson mimicked him, standing up to take off his coat and drape it neatly on the back of his chair. He sat back down with a sigh. The smile still lingered on Dickinson’s face as the two stared at each other from across the table for a long while. Dickinson sipped at his drink.  
  
“I suppose I’ll miss you too,” he mumbled, not entirely aware of himself. Adams cocked his head to the side.  
  
“Really?”  
  
Dickinson shrugged. “Well. Who knows.” Adams nodded in silence, sipping at his drink.  
  
“I wish we hadn’t been on opposite sides of things,” he said quietly. 

Dickinson snorted. “I too wish that you were a sensible man.”  
  
Adams scowled. “I mean it. We could have been friends.”  
  
“We were friends until you-”  
  
Adams cut him off, “I’ve already apologized for that.” Dickinson rolled his eyes, sliding a bit further down in his chair as he refilled his glass.  
  
“Well, we’re a bit of a ways past making up at this point,” he grumbled, the increased melancholy on Adams’ face somehow stirring guilt within his chest, driving him to stare down at the reflection in his glass. Silence lingered between them for what Dickinson imagined to be the millionth time that evening until he felt a sudden warmth and looked up from his drink to see Adams’ hand atop his. He was at a loss for words, and looking hesitantly further up, his eyes locked with Adams’. They were sincere, they always were, always filled with a deep, burning, intense sincerity, no matter the situation. Only now that sincerity was met with an unparalleled level of concern, sadness, and what, upon Dickinson’s continued parsing of his own feelings as well as Adams’, appeared to him as agony. His lips parted in an attempt to speak but he truly found himself at a loss for words so profound that it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.  
  
“Dickinson,” Adams croaked, his voice nearly trembling, “Promise me you will come back alive. Promise me that you’re not going to get hurt.” Dickinson’s brain was overwhelmed with emotion and confusion, and he stayed silent for a while longer until Adams squeezed his hand more tightly. “Promise me!” The man’s voice cracked. Dickinson finally sighed.  
  
“I can’t promise anything. You know that. Don’t be a fool.”  
  
Looking like he’d just been struck, Adams gently released Dickinson’s hand and sat back in his seat. The swirling guilt resumed its place in Dickinson’s chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” Dickinson grumbled.  
  
“I’m not looking at you.”  
  
Dickinson huffed. “Well, that’s worse!” Adams folded his arms across his chest, shrinking in his seat. Dickinson gritted his teeth. How could this man never cease to frustrate him, no matter the situation? “John,” he said, attempting to find a comforting tone of voice. Adams didn’t respond. “John.”  
  
“What?” His voice was hoarse. Like he’d been trying very hard to restrain his emotions. 

Had he never actually seen Adams get drunk before? The thought very nearly amused him. With a sigh, Dickinson leaned forward to, despite his better judgment, refill both glasses. Adams took his glass like it was some kind of object of comfort, sipping it slowly but holding it very firmly in both hands.  
  
“John Adams,” Dickinson said quietly, “I promise you that to the best of my ability I will attempt to avoid harm on the battlefield.” Adams was silent for a while, but Dickinson couldn’t conceive of anything more he could logically offer.  
  
“Thank you,” he eventually whispered. Dickinson could just barely hear it, and he almost wished he didn’t. Seeing that incorrigible, radical little agitator be reduced to this trembling mess made him wish he’d slammed the door in his face. He wished he’d left congress with hatred still roiling within him and never laid eyes on John Adams again.  
  
Despite all that, however, he found himself leaning forward with the fingertips of one hand gently trailing down Adams’ cheek, causing those huge eyes to meet his own with shock and amazement. Adams’ hand slowly covered his, holding his fingers to his cheek for a long while, until Adams, his eyes half-lidded in a mixture of both bashfulness and exhaustion, pressed a kiss into Dickinson’s palm. He then let his hand fall back down to the table, releasing Dickinson, who, not letting his eyes drift from Adams’, slowly sat back down in his chair.  
  
They simply looked at each other. Two men who constantly seemed to have something to say had finally said all they needed to. 

Time seemed to freeze as their eyes locked. Eventually, the morning would come, Adams would leave, Dickinson would head off to war, unsure if he would return. An entire universe of uncertainties would be birthed, come the dawn. But for the time being, time did not exist, as neither did uncertainty nor the agony of departure.


End file.
